1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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